Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [4]
“That’s all right,” Gabriel replied, a little more stiffly than he would have liked. He handed them back to her while he went to search for the vase.
When they had first met, in the park, the woman had been delighted to find out who he was and what had brought him to the city. She had been fascinated to hear him talk about himself, and he had talked more freely to her than he had to anyone since the ninth and last of his bond marriages had come to the inevitable parting of the ways.
She had told him almost nothing about herself, but that was probably because she had little or nothing to tell. Given the presumable difference in their ages, it was only natural that she should be content to listen and learn. When Gabriel had told her that he had been twice rejuvenated, and how long ago his second rejuvenation had been, her eyes had grown wide.
“You must be one of the oldest men in the world,” she had said. “But you seem much better preserved than most others of your generation.” “I suppose so,” he had replied. “Many people—men and women alike—seem to come apart quite rapidly once the effects of their second full rejuve wear off, but I’ve been lucky, at least superficially. Internally, the balance of my organic and inorganic IT is way past critical. If I were to attempt another rejuve I’d very probably end up a vegetable, but if I can stay reasonably fit I can probably keep on getting older for another thirty years, and keep some faint echo of my fading looks until the day I die.” “You look wonderful,” she had assured him. “So wonderfully wise.” When he came back into the reception room the woman was standing at the window, exactly where he had been standing a few moments before. He hoped that she was admiring his handiwork—and that her admiration was not tainted by the slightest sadness. “Let me take the vase,” she said.
Gabriel surrendered his find with a vague gesture of apology for its mere adequacy. He had never believed the die-hard psychobiologists who had insisted that the aesthetic judgments which underlay sexual attractiveness were genetically hardwired so that the idea of beauty and the appearance of youth were inextricably tied together. He had scored too many notable successes in pick-up spots far less promising than Central Park to accept the apologetic argument that the attraction which the very young sometimes manifested for the very old was merely a matter of the momentary fascination of the extraordinary.
“It’s a fine view,” he said, nodding toward the softening skyline.
“It certainly is,” she replied. “The outline of the city is changing day by day, and you’re the man responsible.” “Only one of many,” he said, deeply regretting the duty of false modesty and hoping that she might contradict him.
“Oh no,” she said, right on cue. “You’re the one who’s actually doing it. You’re the deconstructor, the De-civilizer.” He was determined not to let the final noun distract from the effect of the compliment.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she said again. “I prefer making love without the aid of chemical stimulants—don’t you?” He did, but he knew that she would have assumed as much because of the way he dressed. He knew too that she would never have used a phrase like “making love” when talking to someone of her own generation. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether she might be making a little too much effort, but then he smiled, realizing that she was only trying to make a good impression. Her eyes were wonderful, and the way she brushed her flowing tresses aside so that she could see him more clearly was nothing short of divine. No VE siren could ever replace the quotidian reality of her presence and the naive insouciance of her gesture. She placed the vase on the table in front of the sofa, carefully spreading the blooms. There had been a card hidden among them,